


A Happy Ending [Costs Double]

by kaihire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, stripper!Derek AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:48:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaihire/pseuds/kaihire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Stiles' birthday, and his friends decide to surprise him with a visit to a strip club. Unfortunately, Stiles doesn't realize that the stripper they've chosen is less of the buxom, curvy sort and more of the glaring, broody variety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Surprise!

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of Tumblr posts by daunt and yanagoya in which the concept of Derek as a Very Angry Stripper came up. The first chapter is from Stiles' POV and is a touch crackier. The second chapter will be from Derek's POV and is going to have a more adult rating and content (not-a-spoiler: he touches the butt) as well as more of Derek's epic man-pain, because that's what Dereks do.
> 
> Am I sorry? No, not really. Enjoy!
> 
> (<3 to Marq who is so much more than a beta, and didn't even snort tea over her laptop once while reading this.)

“What are we doing here?”

Stiles had to give it to his friends: they actually managed to surprise him. Not even Scott (who normally had the world’s worst “I know a secret” poker face of anyone Stiles had ever met) had let anything slip. For the last five years the birthday tradition had always been for them to take Stiles out to a hokey theme restaurant (last year it’d been the one with the pizza and the guy in a rat costume and all the little kids looking at them like they were crazy for losing at whack-a-mole) and then descend on someone’s living room--usually Scott’s, but sometimes Jackson’s or Danny’s--with horror movies and popcorn. It wasn’t precisely exotic, but it was fun, and it was time spent with most of his buddies in one sitting. Most, because starting last year Lydia and Allison had been less willing to tag along with the guys. It might have had something to do with the fact that Scott had rented "Hallo-weenie" instead of "Halloween" that one time, and porn hadn't been up their alley. Oops.

“This isn’t Chuck-E-Cheese,” Stiles said, his wide, dark eyes reflecting every possible shade of garish, flashing neon from the signs outside. One of those signs was totally a pair of hypnotically-pink boobs that flickered on and off. “This so isn’t Chuck-E-Cheese.”

It was, indeed, so not Chuck-E-Cheese.

Danny nudged him through the door and into the dark, overheated space, music pounding from speakers on the walls--and when Danny nudged, it was like being headbutted by an ox. You just sort of had to go with the momentum if you didn’t want to be flattened. Scott was at his side, laughing at his expression, and Jackson was speaking to a woman who was wearing nothing more than shorts that looked more like underwear and a big smile.

“We got you something special for your big one-eight,” Scott said, and clapped a hand over Stiles’ mouth when he started to protest. “Yup, our little boy’s finally turning 18. Right?” He did that thing with his eyebrows, and Stiles groaned internally. Nothing _ever_ ended well when Scott did the eyebrows!  
  
“Yeah,” he managed when another stripper showed up at his elbow, handing off a big bunch of obnoxiously-colored balloons. Stiles was pretty sure his face matched the neon pink one. “Eighteen. Finally legal. Yup. Totally legal. Nothing illegal about me being here.”  
  
Alright, so he was actually turning 17, but clearly the guys had somehow worked things out with a fake ID or something because they weren’t carded, and they had a reservation, and Stiles thought that if his father ever got wind of this he’d be skinned alive and grounded for like a month solid. Or two. Or forced to file all his paperwork at the precinct, which would be even worse because the sheriff was always at least five weeks behind.  
  
Luckily, the—strippers? dancers? entertainers? Stiles wasn’t sure what the politically correct term was supposed to be, and his brain was taking the concept and running loops around it—were less interested in interrogating him and more interested in getting their party settled. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the week, the club was nearly full, though it was (intentionally) difficult to make out faces in the dark. They were led around past the bar where Stiles got a glance at a grumpy-looking man doling out drinks and apparently bad-mouthing a customer to his face, then past all the stages where women in various costumes (or lack thereof) were dancing, and towards a back section--  
  
“Hey, but--!”  
  
Wasn’t the whole point of going to a strip club, like, getting to watch the strippers? They were totally not watching the strippers. The strippers were back _there_.  
  
“We have something special for you,” Danny said, his dimples practically quadrupling in depth and whoa, that was trouble if Stiles ever saw it. First Scott’s eyebrows, now Danny’s dimples? He might as well call his dad and confess ahead of time. Before he could ask or dig his heels in, though, Stiles found himself getting shoved into a private room by Scott and Jackson, but not before the balloons went in with him and someone snuck one of those cone-shaped cardboard birthday hats on his head at a less-than-flattering angle.  
  
“Geez, guys, come on--!”  
  
No, the door was slammed closed, and that had to be Danny leaning against it because, nope, not budging. Stiles let his forehead hit the door in defeat, then turned around to survey the room. It was barely big enough to turn around in and featured an oversized pleather armchair that took up nearly all the space. There were racy photos all over the walls, though there were so many balloons up against the low ceiling that some of them were obstructed. There was also a plaque on the wall with what appeared to be proper lap-dancing etiquette.  
  
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Stiles said, but his mouth started to form into a lazy grin. They were getting him a lap dance. His friends were getting him a lap dance. His very first. Maybe he’d been too hasty in presuming this was all going to crash and burn. He had the best friends in the whole damn world!  
  
“This is the best birthday ever,” Stiles announced to nobody in particular, then plunked himself bonelessly down in the chair. Maybe they’d even get him a redhead, because his unrequited crush on Lydia was as strong as ever. But hey, a brunette would be cool. Or a blonde. Or just about anyone; he was 17, he wasn’t precisely picky.

It only took a few minutes for him to start to fidget, though. He read and re-read the plaque on the wall, though he was sure he would remember to not proposition the stripper, grab her, or verbally abuse her. Jesus, what sort of people did the women have to deal with? The whole concept was making him more nervous by the minute. His attention skidded to an angry-sounding argument from what seemed to be right in front of his door--some guy arguing with a woman, but he couldn’t make out the words. Stripper drama. Not cool. But it did seem like the woman had the upper hand, even if all he could make out was the increasingly-resigned masculine voice and the almost gloating female one. Hopefully it had nothing to do with him, though. Or his lack of ID. Nope, couldn’t be him, he was cool, he was totally just faking his age and potentially breaking the law or something. His dad was going to kill him. His life was over.

The argument abruptly ended before Stiles could decide if seppuku was appropriate before his dad got his hands on him, and then the door to the room slammed open. A man that Stiles recognized as the bartender (the really _grumpy_ bartender) filled up the entire doorway with his big, muscular, angry (did he mention angry?) shoulders, his expression like something on a serial killer (who had maybe once been a fashion model).

The dude took a step into the room, and Stiles was sure he could see the veins sticking out at the side of his neck from barely-repressed murderous rage. The bartender even clenched his (big, angry, it was a theme) hands into fists and _growled_.

“Holy shit,” Stiles squeaked, trying to climb up the back of the armchair. He was cornered. He was going to die. He was going to die in a tiny room in the back of a strip joint in a birthday hat, surrounded by balloons and stripper pictures and the last shreds of his dignity. Why was this his life?  
  
“Are you Stiles?” the bartender snapped, his voice like gravel and thunder and dude, Stiles was so not a poet, but it was all deep and sexy and so, so angry that words just weren’t going to be happening. He managed to squawk out something that sounded like an apologetic ‘yeah’, but mostly he was trying to figure out if his death would come faster by just trying to dive past the guy and out into the corridor. Maybe then he’d slam his head into the wall and he could die of cranial bleeding rather than slowly being choked or beaten to death or whatever it was that murderous bartenders preferred to do to underaged guys at stripper clubs.  
  
“I’m too young to die,” he cried out when the man slammed the door closed behind him. “I don’t know what I did but I’m so, so totally sorry. Really, very sorry. Please don’t kill me!”

That, at least, appeared to give the other man some pause, just long enough for Stiles to wonder if that was his 5-o’clock shadow or if he shaved his stubble to that level of rugged-yet-genteel perfection. The bartender’s dark eyebrows lifted slightly, like he was genuinely perplexed that Stiles might think he was about to meet his maker (which was going to be totally awkward with him being an atheist and all, and shit, he should have had a backup plan for all that), but dipped back down before Stiles could foster any false hope that he’d ever make it out of here alive.

“Sit down and shut up,” the bartender grunted, shoving away a low-floating balloon, and started to peel off his tank top. Stiles figured that if those abs—cut and sleek and totally impossible, like, what did the guy have, 2% body fat?—were the last thing he ever saw, maybe that wasn’t so bad. "Your friends hired me." His eyebrows spelled imminent death. The words took a beat or two to sink through his adrenaline-addled brain. And that was when Stiles realized the horrifying truth: his friends had booked a serial killer to be his stripper. 


	2. Howlers: It's Like Hooters But Without Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who let underage boys into a strip joint? Why is Derek working there, anyway? Why am I writing Erica? When will the porn happen?
> 
> Also known as bonus filler chapter which tells you a bit of plot while I write the actual smut. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to make sure I at least get an update posted tonight and this was getting long enough to warrant its own sliver of fic. As hard as I tried to not put an actual story behind any of this, well, that's just sort of what I do. Sorry.
> 
> If you're here for just the smut, you could pretty much skip this chapter and wait for the next one. 
> 
> Also, thank you to everyone who's given kudos, written comments, or just liked this on Tumblr. I've been sort of low the past couple weeks and it means a lot. ;o; You're all lovely and this fandom is amazing. <3

 

The three boys came in one late afternoon, a week prior at a slow time of day before the regulars started trickling in. Erica had them pegged as blatantly underaged before the one with the funny jaw even gave himself away by squeaking something about getting in trouble, but it was the painfully handsome one who caught her attention. Mostly because he was painfully handsome, even if he was jailbait.

 

"Your moms are going to be wondering why you’re not at preschool, boys. Can I help you?" she drawled, leaning over the counter with a bored expression and twirling a strand of bleached hair. The boy with the funny jaw tried to disappear behind the well-built, undoubtedly gay one, but the painfully handsome kid stepped up with a self-assured grin so white and straight that it must have been insured. Erica was willing to bet money that his daddy had bought him a flashy car and that he always had a girlfriend to match its upholstery. He held his hand out. Rolex, this season’s model. Erica arched an eyebrow and shook his hand.

 

"Jackson Whitmore. I'd like to discuss a business proposition."

 

☽

 

The stack of bills Jackson slid across the counter like pocket change had plenty to do with Erica being willing to bend the rules, but the dazzling smile and the prank itself appealed to her nature. Trouble was fun, or at least more fun than another boring week of dodging stray hands. They sealed the deal, discussed how this was absolutely not on her if the authorities found out they were hosting minors, and then Erica opened up the ring-bound binder to a photo page.

 

"This is Ricardo," she said. "He'd be perfect." The stripper in the picture was lean, leggy, and covered in glitter. His nipples were pierced, he had a rainbow boa slung across his neck, and his g-string was made of silver lurex. Erica didn't bother to mention that he pretty much dressed like that on his down time, too. "You did say your friend won't react poorly to a guy showing up for the lap dance," because at the end of the day, Erica didn't want anyone getting hurt, "but if he's straight, Ricardo will be just the guy to prank him."

 

The blatantly gay one—Danny, that had been his name—was looking a bit longingly at the pictures, and Erica rolled her eyes before snapping the book shut.

 

“No freebies, junior. I’m already risking a lot letting you do this. I don’t even want to think what sort of shit would hit the fan if your friend was actually  _into_ the whole thing.”

 

☾

 

Derek Hale was the part-time weeknight bartender at Howlers. His day job—college student—naturally didn’t pay the bills. He was already 24, but the death of his family had been an atom bomb going off in his neatly planned-out path. Derek had lasted about two weeks before the pitying looks from everyone in town chased him away to a friend’s couch in Brooklyn, half a world away. It had taken him two years to dig himself out of a depressive pit to return home and finish high school at all, and now he was struggling to finish his first year at community college with high enough marks to hopefully move on to a better college. At this point, Derek wasn’t even sure what he wanted to major in. He just knew that he didn’t want to end up behind a McDonald’s counter somewhere for the rest of his life. If he ever had to ask someone whether they wanted fries with that he’d probably end up sticking his head in the deep-fryer.

 

College wasn’t cheap, though. Most of the windfall from the horrific death of what amounted to his entire clan was safely tucked away in a fund that kept his surviving uncle in a top-notch facility. That meant Derek lived on ramen and gas station hot dogs and store-brand soda, for the most part, and wouldn’t have been able to afford a car if he hadn’t inherited his sister’s ride. It had actually been Boyd, one of the (few) friends he made at the community college who suggested he get certified as a bartender to make money on the side. That class had been easy enough, and the alchemy of it appealed to Derek. He realized he actually  _enjoyed_ bartending, even if he didn’t enjoy the human interaction part of it. He was certainly willing to cope with customers if it helped to elevate his food options from Top Ramen to Hungry Man. (Well, it was  _somewhat_ of an improvement.) The only problem, as he soon found out, was that the only job available nearby was at Beacon Hills’ lone strip joint.

 

It could have been worse. Burger King had been hiring.

 

Derek learned quickly that raggedy jeans and a t-shirt got him tips, but a snug sleeveless shirt and leather pants (a smart investment) earned him nearly four times that. The strip joint catered to a mixed clientele, which suited Derek just fine, so the strippers were both male and female, though leaning heavily towards the female end of the spectrum with names like Candy and Cindy and Bambi and every variant thereof. Most of the guys at the bar appreciated that the bartender wasn’t overly chatty, though the women sometimes complained that he only appeared to communicate in grunts and glares and really needed to learn how to use words.

 

☽

 

“Oh fuck,” Erica said, shoving the phone back in its cradle behind the bar and collapsing melodramatically over the worn wood surface. Derek had to repress the desire to spray her with soda. “We’re about to lose two grand.”

 

Derek continued to dry glasses with a clean bar towel, eyebrows lifting in question. Two grand meant a big party of some sort. He reached for another Collins glass, held it up to the light to make sure it was clean. Parties rarely tipped, anyway, and most of that went to the dancers. It wasn’t likely to mean any sort of personal loss to him.

 

“Aren’t you going to ask why?” she finally asked. “Make me a drink.”

 

Derek glared at her before reaching for a shot glass.

 

“I didn’t ask for a shot.”

 

“You going to waste it?”

 

“Fair enough,” the blonde muttered, running a hand through her artfully-messy hair. “God, I wish we could smoke in here.” She knocked her shot back, and Derek refilled it. “Anyway. Ricardo was booked for a birthday party tonight and he just called in sick.”

 

“Who cares if he’s sick? It’s dark and he doesn’t have to talk.” Let nobody ever accuse Derek Hale of simple human compassion.

 

“Yeah, well, nobody wants a lap dance from a guy with pinkeye.”

 

Derek figured there was probably a fetish in there somewhere, but that was enough to make him rethink his life choices.

 

“He could wear sunglasses.” 

 

Derek scrunched his face up in thought and Erica rolled her eyes. And then narrowed them, her lips curving into something downright predatory.

 

“Actually, maybe I can still salvage this situation.”

 

 _Fuck_ , thought Derek, suddenly reconsidering the idea of a fast food career path.

 


	3. Money Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek totally doesn't get paid enough for this.

 

“There is absolute no way in Hell that I’m going in there.”

 

Erica smirked, twirling the empty shot glass around between her fingers.

 

“Oh, yes you are. It’s only a prank. You’re going to go in there, the guy’s going to scream, his buddies are going to laugh, and then you’ll get a big bonus for your troubles.”

 

“I said no, Erica. I’m a bartender, I’m not a stripper. Not my job description.”

 

“Get over yourself. Because the dancers are what, worse than you?” The corners of her lips dipped down. “You know, Derek, I think this’ll be good for you. Actually, I’m going to make sure it’s good for you: either you do this or you can look for another job.”

 

Derek slammed a glass down on the counter, his eyes filled with rage. Impotent rage, though; she had him over a barrel and she knew it.

 

“Not many available lately, either, what with the shitty economy. I hear Taco Bell could use someone to dress up in a Chihuahua costume and hand out sales flyers,” Erica said, propping her chin on one hand, her entire demeanor so smug that Derek once more had to resist the urge to spritz her with water.

 

“I can’t believe you’d pull that sort of shit.”

 

“Yes you can, cupcake. Don’t act so betrayed. I’ll call you over when we’re ready. And Derek? Don’t fuck up.”

 

 

☽

 

 

He put up perfunctory resistance when she led him to the private room and whipped out a bottle of baby oil.

 

“You have got to be shitting me,” he snapped, not caring if the little bastard in the room heard him. “You’re not rubbing me down like—“

 

“Like what? Like you’re for sale? Take off your shirt, Derek, and shut your mouth.”

 

And maybe he bellowed, just a little, when she tweaked one of his nipples out of spite.

 

 

☾

 

 

“Holy shit,” the kid—Stiles—squeaked, scrambling in the chair when Derek shoved open the door to the private room. This was supposed to be a prank, right? Was that the reason for the balloons that kept trying to bop him in the face? Derek swatted one away, feeling his blood pressure rising. Erica hovered in the hallway just beyond Stiles’ line of sight, knowing very well that she needed to be there to keep Derek from backing out.

 

“Are you Stiles?” he asked, hoping that Erica had screwed up with the room designations. The boy couldn’t possibly be 18, and he looked terrified rather than scandalized. He’d been imagining some varsity football jock, not this lanky, surprisingly tall-looking _boy_ with eyes like Bambi.

 

“I’m too young to die,” the kid babbled, big brown eyes darting around as if expecting help to appear. Just then, Erica shoved the door closed, effectively trapping Derek inside. “I don’t know what I did but I’m so, so totally sorry. Really, very sorry. Please don’t kill me!”

 

Nobody had ever accused him of being homicidal before, though Derek supposed the entrance he’d made had been less than encouraging. He cleared his throat slightly and tried to relax his shoulders. The goal of this was to freak the kid out enough that he bolted for it so that his friends had something to tease him about for years to come.

 

Maybe the whole ‘mortal terror’ thing could work to his advantage.

 

“Sit down and shut up,” Derek muttered, shoving away another low-floating balloon, and started to peel off his tank top. Erica had slathered him with enough oil to feel he was leaving a slick worthy of the Exxon Valdez in his wake. Stiles looked generally petrified. "Your friends hired me." That was about as soothing as he was going to get.

 

“M-my friends… h-hired you… to… kill me?”

 

Derek raised his eyebrows. What was the guy, slow?

 

“Your friends,” he said, exaggerating the words like he was talking to a dumb puppy, “hired me,” he pointed at his chest, “to give you,” and at Stiles, “a dance for your birthday.

 

Stiles blinked.

 

Derek glared.

 

The world somehow continued to turn on its axis.

 

“ _You’re_ going to give me a lap dance?” Stiles managed, his voice really small. At least he’d stopped trying to make the armchair absorb him into itself. “B-but you’re a—“

 

“Guy. Yeah, you figured that out, huh?” He flashed a grin that he was feeling absolutely no part of, more a show of teeth, trying not to fidget with where the shirt had remained rucked about an inch or two higher than the waistband of his leather pants. The oil was making everything stick to him. “Let me guess, you don’t want the lap dance.”

 

Good. He’d done his part, and Erica couldn’t fault him for it. Prank successfully executed.

 

Stiles licked his lips and glanced down at the bare strip of his belly, then back up, his face somewhat pale. His Adam’s apple did a rather acute dip.

 

“That’s not what I said.”

 

_What?_

 

“What?” He could hear the snarl in his own voice, but there was nothing he could do about it.

 

“I didn’t say I don’t want the lap dance.”

 

He was going to kill Erica.

 

 

☽

 

 

It had to be Danny’s idea, Stiles thought desperately. It had to be. The guy was _gorgeous_ , so it wasn’t like they were pranking him with some buck-toothed octogenarian. Maybe this guy was the best looking stripper in the whole place? Maybe they’d been all out of redheads? It wasn’t precisely a secret that Stiles had been in love with Lydia Martin since, oh, preschool, but Danny knew that Stiles wasn’t precisely the straightest guy in the world. He clubbed with trans girls all the time. The way he saw it, he was seventeen; pretty much everything hot was a turn-on, and gender just sort of happened—or didn’t. It was all good, right?

 

But yeah, no, back to tall, dark, and brooding. And gorgeous. Stiles shifted a little in the chair, trying not to stare at the way the guy’s happy trail bisected the exposed sliver of bare skin or the way his hair was just mussed enough that Stiles would do anything to be allowed to bury his hands in it. Even if he _had_ been straight as, well, straight as _Scott_ , bless his little uncomplicated soul, he wouldn’t have been able to deny that the bartender—wasn’t he a bartender?—was smokin’ hot. Painfully hot. Atomically out of his league hot.

 

And surprised. The bartender looked totally surprised, and even more enraged than he had a second ago. Maybe that was his ‘sexy’ look? Maybe he had aimed for ‘Blue Steel’ and ended with ‘Hannibal Lecter’? Maybe he just glared instead of looking sultry? Was that a thing? It had to be a thing. Sort of the way some guys in porn acted all angry and aggressive when they were probably teddy-bears to be around. That had to be it. The bartender was probably just role-playing some sort of sultry serial killer role.

 

Ok, maybe not. But he didn’t look like he was armed. He also didn’t look like he was taking his clothes off or anything. Stiles started to fidget.

 

“So um. What’s uh. What’s your name?” he asked.

 

That seemed to prompt the bartender to get his groove back. Sort of. He had this expression on his face like he was steeling himself to go off to war, but he took a step closer, then another, and peeled his shirt off half way. The sudden flash of skin and the flex of his tan forearms was enough to make Stiles’ mouth go dry.

 

“Miguel,” the bartender deadpanned.

 

“You really don’t look like a Mig—“

 

The man chose that moment to plant a knee down between Stiles’ spread thighs on the edge of the armchair, putting the half-bared abs at nearly eye level. Stiles’ brain short circuited for a moment, mouth going slack. Abs. Face. Was he allowed to lick? And where had his usual sense of not being a sleazeball gone? Had it been destroyed by the four Red Bulls that Scott had made him drink on the way here?

 

“Oh. My. God. Are you for real? How are those real?”

 

Miguel—no, really, the guy couldn’t be a Miguel—made a derisive sound in the back of his throat and leaned in even closer and wow, ok, so now his pelvis was that much closer to Stiles’ chest and then the shirt came off the rest of the way and holy shit, he had the best friends in the world, how had he ever doubted them.

 

Stiles didn’t even realize that his hand was on the man’s chest, feeling the strong shift of his pectoral muscle beneath overheated, smooth skin until the hand was smacked away.

 

“No groping,” the bartender snarled, gesturing at the sign on the wall.

 

“That only says I can’t touch your boobs,” Stiles ventured, trying not to wither under the guy’s totally impressive death-glare. “I mean, these are really big and buff and holy shit so very hot but they’re not technically boobs, right?” The bartender snarled harder, and Stiles tossed his hands up in the air, starting to feel giddy from all the adrenaline. And caffeine. And surprise!penis that he totally hadn’t bargained on having in his face during his lap dance. “Sorry, sorry, ok, no touching your man-cleavage. Got it. I’ll um. I’ll just.”

  
He sat on his hands. What? How else was he supposed to keep from putting them all over the guy’s body? It was like some sort of obscenely delicious sculpture come to life. Ancient Greek dudes would have gone _crazy_ over—

 

“Do you realize you’re saying that out loud?” the bartender asked, and Stiles shut his mouth. Nope. No he hadn’t. The man muttered something to himself, then caught both of Stiles’ wrists with his hands. Stiles wondered if he was about to become permanently maimed but instead found his hands being placed on the bartender’s thighs. His totally toned, leather-clad thighs.

 

“Oh my God, how do you expect me to be able to handle this?” he squeaked. “I swear, I’m going to just explode from sensory overload and—“

 

“Do you ever shut up?” the man asked, sounding exasperated, and rolled his hips forward. Stiles stared at the crotch. Stiles squeezed the thighs. Stiles was so, so getting uncomfortably hard. This was the best day of his life. This was also possibly the worst day of his life. He wasn’t sure yet.

 

“No, not usually, it’s a habit, I think, I talk when I’m excited or when I’m nervous—which, you know, both of those—but also when I’ve had too much sugar and yeah, that too right now, and sometimes just when I’m all by myself because it’s freaky when it goes too quiet—“

 

The bartender clapped his hand over Stiles’ mouth and used the other one to move one of Stiles’ hands to his belly as a consolation prize. And maybe Stiles could totally feel his cock throb because holy shit, holy shit, holy shit. He spread his fingers, feeling the bartender’s abdominal muscles flutter as he rolled his hips again in time with the background music pumped into the room. Crotch. Belly. Chest. Thighs. Stiles wasn’t sure where he was supposed to look. The hand over his mouth was broad and strong-fingered, and smelled faintly of whiskey and lime.

 

That was so going to become a recurring theme in his dreams for, like, ever.

 

The bartender shifted again, knees on either side of Stiles’ thighs on the seat and his stomach at eye-level, and Stiles made the mistake of really taking a good look at that brooding face. Severe jaw, serious stubble, a no-nonsense set to his lips, eyebrows that spelled certain death—and probably the most gorgeous, bright-hazel eyes Stiles had ever seen. Seriously, there was bright green and bright blue and pure amber and—

 

“Your eyes are so gorgeous,” he blurted against the man’s palm.

 

 

☾

 

 

Derek jerked his hand away like he’d been burned, the ticklish slide of the boy’s lips against his skin searing straight south in a way that it really had no right to. The kid was actually _looking_ at him now, not just staring at different parts of his anatomy, all big brown sincere eyes, and Derek didn’t know what to do with that.

 

“Happy endings cost double,” he said defensively because no. No way. The kid blushed and tripped over his words, shaking his head.

 

“N-no, wow, yeah, no, I’m not trying to—I mean, it’s true. They are. I just. Sorry.” He felt the boy’s hands flex nervously against his thighs and leaned encouragingly into the touch, which seemed to distract him slightly. The hands slid up and down, Stiles glancing up at him from under his long lashes every split second as if expecting Derek to slap the touch away again. He finally seemed to relax into it after a minute or two, sucking his lower lip into his mouth as he palmed up over Derek’s hip bones through the supple leather, and that made it easier on him. It wasn’t like he’d done this before.

 

Stiles had both hands on Derek’s hipbones, kneading them unconsciously in time with the music, and Derek leaned closer, close enough to see all the tiny and not-so-tiny moles scattered over the boy’s skin like so much chocolate splatter. He planted one hand on the back of the chair above Stiles’ right shoulder and watched the cinnamon-brown of Stiles’ irises disappear in a sudden dilation of his pupils. He could feel Stiles’ breath against the center of his chest, knew the kid would be able to smell his cologne and the overheated leather at this distance. He knelt up higher from where he’d been nearly sitting on Stiles’ lap, watched the boy’s gaze dart from his eyes down to his right hand, which he slid over his own chest and stomach, stroking down in a lazy trail until he could palm himself perfunctorily through the leather.

 

The noise Stiles made was half-way between a gasp and a choke, a raw, oddly adult sound of need from someone who looked like he was barely past puberty. Derek didn’t even have to look to know Stiles was hard—but it freaked him out a bit that glancing down to confirm it made his own cock jerk where he was giving it a rough stroke or two. He wasn’t supposed to be into this, was he? But Stiles was hot in that nerdy, earnest way that Derek had a guilty soft spot for, and he wasn’t trying to feel up Derek’s junk or make demands. That coupled with how long it had _been_ made Derek seriously consider just ending the lap dance early, before he made an ass of himself.

 

Stiles’ hands chose that moment to ghost up to rest low on his waist, just above the leather waistband of his pants. Derek leaned a little closer still, his face just a few inches from Stiles’, close enough that he could feel the boy’s ragged, desperate breaths against his lips.

 

“Do you want me, Stiles?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. Stiles made a sort of inhuman noise of affirmation, so Derek firmly flicked open the top button of his leather pants without breaking eye contact.

 

That was, apparently, all it took. Stiles’ breathing convulsed, his body jerked, and Derek settled back on his heels with a smirk.

 

“I didn’t even touch you,” he said after a moment, when the kid started to look mortified rather than post-orgasmic. “I won’t charge you for that.”

 

He leaned down impulsively, trying not to overthink it, and planted a chaste kiss on the boy’s lips, coming away with the faint taste of sour apple Jolly Ranchers.

 

“Happy birthday.”

 

 

☽

 

 

“Wait, wait, wait, did you just say some dude named _Miguel_ did your lap dance? Wasn’t his name supposed to be Ricardo or something?” Jackson asked, looking from Stiles’ flushed cheeks to the hoodie tied at an awkward and obvious angle around his waist.

 

“Definitely Miguel. You know. The bartender?” Stiles managed.

 

Jackson glanced at Danny, who glanced at Scott. Scott shrugged.

 

“So much for the joke.”

 

“At least he got our money’s worth?” Danny ventured, and Stiles tried to disappear into his seat.

 

 

☾

 

 

It was nearly 2am before Derek was finally allowed to head home for the night. The strip club stayed open until 5am, but their license only permitted them to serve liquor until 1:30. He had wanted to leave earlier than that on account of doing Erica a very big favor that he had absolutely not consented to but she was having none of it, though she kept shooting him strange looks that indicated she may have been feeling some semblance of remorse or concern. Or just that there was something she wasn’t telling him.

 

He didn’t see Stiles again, but judging by the amount of sodas being ordered by one booth and all the balloons in that corner of the club, he was still celebrating with his friends. Derek didn’t know what had possessed him to kiss the boy—or to want to get him off, though he’d expected to have to at least touch him a little or get a good grind in against him. He wasn’t going to admit that he’d gone from the private room straight back to another empty one and jerked off frantically, his forearm braced against the door, his face buried in the crook of his arm, hot chills thrilling down his spine. It took less than four hard, rough strokes to get there, his brain conjuring up images of Stiles beneath him, his lips parted and slightly puffy and slick, his hands pressing crescent nail-marks into his lower back, just _waiting_ …

 

Derek dragged his jacket on and pulled out his car keys, turning up the leather collar against a blast of rain. Classic autumn weather meant it was damp all the time, windy most of the time, and raining when you least wanted it to. His hands were turning stiff from the cold by the time he got to his car.

 

Which wouldn’t start.

 

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

 

Derek tried again. And again. And he cursed, propping his hood open to fumble around under there in the absolute pitch dark with rain leaking down the back of his collar as if that would magically make his aging starter change its mind.

 

“Fuck. FUCK.”

 

He slammed his fists down on the roof of his car, letting his head hang. He had to get home to change and catch a few hours of sleep before his 7:30am classes but no. No, his ass was going to be walking home because nobody who was currently working would be done with their shift until well after the sun came up.

 

“Hey. Uh, Miguel?”

 

Derek lifted his head, wondering what fresh Hell the day was bringing. Stiles was standing under the building’s overhang, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of an oversized red hoodie.

 

“Need a lift?”

 

The kid scuffed his shoes a little, cheeks pink-tinged from either the cold or embarrassment. This was a terrible idea. Whatever Erica hadn’t told him could very well come back to bite him in the ass, but right now all he was seeing was a ride home with someone who wasn’t likely to be more trouble than he could handle. What the Hell, he was already screwed. Derek pocketed his keys and shrugged.

 

“Yeah, if you’re heading my way. And it’s not Miguel. My name is Derek.”

 

Stiles smiled—a genuine, bright smile that lit up his entire face.

 

“Derek. Alright, Derek. Let’s get you home.”

 

  
FIN.


	4. [art]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why did I never post this? XD
> 
> This is fanart done for me by the super-amazing and delicious Yana. <3 You should all go and love her as much as I do.

[](http://yanagoya.tumblr.com/post/32825674104/well-i-no-longer-question-anything-because-there)  



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